


Undecalactone

by cicak



Series: Perfume triptych [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Bottom Hannibal, Cuckquean, Cunnilingus, Epistolary, F/M, Love Letters, M/M, Porn With Plot, Season/Series 02 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 01:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1921695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicak/pseuds/cicak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Throughout all this, Hannibal writes her the kind of pornography other women and many professional romance writers dream of receiving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undecalactone

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [Sillage](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1008024), but does not necessarily need to be read to understand what goes on here. Knowledge of the progression of season 2 is needed, however. Beware spoilers.

She and Hannibal held their own funeral service with Will’s name in every movement, though they did not speak for fear of invoking the serious tone that lies with the dead. It felt like an evening told backwards: first the wake, with its laughter and reminiscing, and then the funeral, with rites and ritual. They did not talk of the last time they were in bed together, and how he was between them then, and now within them, haunting their pleasure. She could feel a difference in Hannibal that she attributed to no longer competing with another man for her affections, even though he won, and denied her and Will the kind of closure they needed that only a drunken fuck could solve without mutual destruction.

This time, he pushes inside her and it is intense, the stretch that sillicone cannot reproduce, the heat and illicit thrill of unprotected sex, that shudder of the well trained female push against the irresponsible feeling of a naked man. Her clit throbs with it, and she gives into the feeling of his body above her and the cool, sensual sheets against her back. She never got to enjoy them last time for what they were obviously designed for, to feel exquisite against the hyper-alive skin of the sexually aroused. Instead then, she was between the rough hair of two men, her skin rubbed insensate and her body carried away in the primal feel of it. Though, she is not thinking of it. This time, she feels him solid and blind between her legs while her body moves easily against his, driving them both towards mutual point.

They do try and talk about it, initially, but the urge fades as the words pass their lips and they fuck again in the cool light of day where they cannot hide from their training and knowledge of the human mind. Nevertheless, Hannibal’s erection stirs against her thigh as he talks about Will in the round until he becomes overcome and it is under that influence that takes her again. It is uniquely sensual and wild and yet she can feel the caged animal of his strength as he takes her apart. 

Somehow, they never get round to talking about it, until ‘it’ becomes a forgotten tender moment, something half forgotten in a drawer in her mind.

\---

The first letter was a surprise. Hannibal usually sends private correspondence to her home address, and those are usually invitations for dinner or interesting articles he thought she would enjoy (he has more obscure subscriptions to psychological journals than her university library can afford). The only time she sees his characteristic copperplate at work is usually a referral, something professional but with a subtext of surprise, where one of his society neurotics turns out to be seriously ill and needs hospital treatment. 

Something in her decides to rip it open rather than pass it unopened to her secretary for processing, and god, while it would have been worth it for the look on his face, the look on hers also is likely a picture.

“My dear Alana,

It is presumptuous to write a letter to you at work, but I had a selfish need for you to read this as soon as possible, before you make plans or even begin your day.

I have tried to describe you in my mind, but everything I come up with is trite. You are a peach, illicit and stolen from the sunkissed Georgian fields, not the type wrapped in plastic and ripened beneath fluorescent lighting on the edges of a warehouse. A singular delight I am increasingly dependent on. You are embossed upon the delicate flesh of my brain, and I am fixated on the image of your slick arousal running down my chin, below my collar, so that later when I see a patient with your juices are upon my body. The smell of you clings to my pores and I cross my legs to hide my arousal from my patient, but suspect he unsees my erection the way so many men refuse to see what is in front of them. Still, it is highly unprofessional, but I cannot find it in myself to care.  
I burn for you. Please come to dinner tonight. Even should this letter be delayed, please let yourself in and come find me, whatever the day.

Yours,  
Hannibal

\---

She does as he asks, and in the weeks subsequent she and Hannibal rarely leave his bed when they are within each other’s orbits, only emerging to eat and even then more often than not they fuck where the remains of their food lies. The sex does great things for her skin, and her posture feels impossibly lighter, even better than the month she did yoga every day. Their relationship is sincerely the most singularly pleasurable that has happened to her for a decade. It is a great counterpoint to the campaign of horror Will Graham’s trial is for them. Facing it together makes it bearable.

Hannibal writes her more letters, which she hides in the back of her lingerie, tied up in ribbon, like how Grandmothers in books always do. She daydreams of a daughter to find them and be scandalised. She tries not to picture the daughter having cheekbones like cut glass.

The letters arrive to places where she never expects. She finds pornographic epics waiting for her at dingy motels the university puts her up in for a conference. Her welcome pack includes the following, typed cleanly on headed paper and slipped in on a special instruction:  
“I want you to come for dinner. I do not mean that as an invitation. I mean that my dinner shall be the breathy pant of your voice in my ear, and the twitch of you wrapped around me, the ripple that indicates that your brain is firing and everything has taken second place to the way I am making you feel. After, I will lick my ejaculate out of you, and taste how different it is when we have come this way, and continue until you are so sensitive you can feel every bump on my tongue worship you in its own way.”

She is lucky that the discussion she chooses at random to sit through, an investigation into the benefits of using the standard gamble preference elicitation method over time trade off when calculating wellbeing in patients with schizophrenia, her dazed look at least matches the other delegates’. 

\---

Things take a turn for the dramatic once the honeymoon period is over. Hannibal nearly dies at the hands of Will’s proxy, and then Will is released from prison and doesn’t disappear from their lives like anyone with half a sense would do. It is a horrible time in her life. She feels soft-bellied and threatened, and wears practical armour in case the person Will has become decides to turn on her, thick coats that hide her frame and flat shoes with thick tread ideal for running away over hills and trails.

Throughout all this, Hannibal writes her the kind of pornography other women and many professional romance writers dream of receiving. Though his hands are still injured, and his psyche is bruised from his near death experience, he still remains a great lover and friend. She feels more confident with him than with anyone else. Even though his strength did not save him from a murderer’s hands, she feels it and imagines it is for her, that it will protect her. Still, when she is not in his bed with him devouring her, she cannot help but remember that dinner. She feels terrible for it, but the dinner where Hannibal seduced both her and Will, and how they felt fucking underneath her, as she rode Hannibal’s hand to climax after climax like a boat upon their perverse sea, haunts her. She relives it with one hand on her clit and the other buried in her own hair, a reflex but also a sensory recall of the way they held her so confidently, no boyish self-consciousness, no tentative misunderstanding of a woman’s body. After, she feels sick, and consoles herself with it all being understandable. Her body has always reacted this way to grief, craving sensation like a junkie.

When, weeks later she and Will defrost enough under the heat of Hannibal’s influence to be at least civil, they walk the dogs. It is a stark winter’s day, the snow on the ground tired and worn and wanting to be let go. It is a surprise when he steals a single kiss under a tree far from prying eyes. A crazy second has her wishing, she wants to press him against the ancient bark and take him roughly, mess him up further both physically and emotionally. She feels vampiric, powerful, but instead of devouring she savours, and steps away. She tells herself it is for his own good, and for the good of her relationship with Hannibal. She does not think about what is good for her until later.

She knows in her heart they are fucking. It happens when Will cuts his hair, she gets this feeling that things have changed. That the stakes of the game have changed. Its nothing more than an intuition, but she has witnessed their passion before and sometimes she comes to Hannibal’s for dinner and the food feels pre-cooked, like he is entertaining them both with the same moves. He doesn’t shy away like a man who has already been fucked, and makes love the way he always has done, with that passion of them being the last two people on earth. However, she can’t help but notice that he doesn’t write her letters anymore, doesn’t let her into his innermost thoughts, and stops leaving the door on the latch so she can let herself in.

She wishes she didn’t mind. She wishes she hadn’t seen it coming. She hates that she feels bitter, righteous anger that they didn’t invite her into their imperfect circle. That she cannot join them in their bed and be part of it, to know their secrets and their plans for the future. To know them intimately, to feel them both inside her. She suspects that if she barged in there, if she seduced them with her secret weapon, she could get a night and work from there, but she wants them to invite her willingly into their bed. Instead, they invite her for dinner. 

The fish is perfect. The creeping dread isn’t. Will and Hannibal dance around her her and challenge her challenges and when she walks to her car, she sees them illuminated against the window of Hannibal’s bedroom, overlooking the road, pressed together as one beast, hands occasionally flying, and one going on his knees for the other. It is hard, at this distance and without Will Graham’s distinctive curls, to know who is who. 

The last time she and Hannibal have sex she goes half mad because she can smell Will on his skin. She knows his senses and knows he is making her a cuckquean, a female cuckold. She finds herself getting off on it, on his brazenness and determination. She can feel in the twitch of his muscles that he is already exhausted, and so rides him viciously to compensate for it. She comes thrice and he mewls and teeters on the edge of orgasm for the last two of them, holding back until she hops off and swallows him down, pushing her fingers into him and feels how slick he is, feels how raw his screams are as he comes down her throat as her fingers hold his prostate hostage.  
Through the mellow haze she knows it is over, that the thrill of taking back what she thought was hers was nothing of the sort. She walks out of the room to gather the clothes she threw off in her passion. She doesn’t take in the subtle changes that indicate another person is living within its walls. She only notices later, when she has a lot of time to think about it, all the clues she ignored in her fury.

It is the last time she walks out of Hannibal’s house.

**Author's Note:**

> Undecalactone is the synthetic peach skin scent used in perfumes. It is also the dominant opening note in the headcanon perfume I cast Alana as wearing in Sillage.
> 
> [cicaklah.tumblr.com](http://cicaklah.tumblr.com)


End file.
